


You Were So Desperate For Love

by CautionaryTales



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras is a butt who can't figure out his own emotions, Enjolras is an ass and nobody is surprised, Eponine is a terrifying best friend, F/M, Frozen (2013) References, M/M, Multi, Piningjolras, extreme pranks, more like brain!crack that I couldn't get rid of and it turned into fic, nothing good ever happens to Grantaire until now, this is kind of a Frozen crossover but not really, which cause enjolras grief and are definitely inconvenient
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:03:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1187970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CautionaryTales/pseuds/CautionaryTales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire starts dating a man that he met at the university and Enjolras doesn't know why this makes him so frustrated.  A few harsh words later, Éponine is doing everything she can to keep him away from Grantaire.  She wants her best friend to be happy and doesn't see a this being a situation that Enjolras factors into anymore.  Apparently her efforts involve making his life very difficult and convincing his psychology professor that he's incredibly sexually deviant.  Misunderstanding, unrequited love, and a golden trio of pining ensue; and Grantaire's romance doesn't end in a way that anyone expected.</p><p>Note:  After some consideration, I went through the fic and had it properly edited.  All chapters have been changed somewhat to fit a coherent story line.  Big thanks to queerpercy for reading through the entire thing for me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Grantaire loudly bursts into the Musain before the weekly meeting of Les Amis de L’ABC.  It is an unusual sight as he normally enters quietly, slinking directly to his table at the back of the room, sparing a few nods toward anyone who acknowledges his presence.  

Today he looks disheveled and tired, but very happy.  The expression sits strangely on his face.  Grantaire never looks particularly pleased about anything; save for the scraps of attention that Enjolras throws him on occasion, that is.  

This fact is taken into account by everyone present because in Grantaire’s world, "before a meeting," means twenty minutes late.  At least he’s earlier than usual, although he is as apathetic as ever about interrupting his friends.  

The man makes a beeline for Jehan and whispers something into his ear before straightening up and looking down shyly.  Enjolras abruptly stops talking at that moment because Grantaire is many things, but shy is definitely not, and has never been, one of them.  

In a matter of seconds, Grantaire falls backward and slams against the floor, limbs flailing.  This has a lot to do with the fact that Jehan basically launched himself out of his chair, flying toward his friend.  It takes a few minutes, but they someone manage to detangle themselves.  The second they’re off the floor, Jehan squeals a little and throws his arms around Grantaire's neck again.

By this point Enjolras is just standing and staring at the two men, brow furrowed.  Combeferre is burying his face in his arm, trying to bite back laughter because he can almost see the “buffering” symbol in front of his friend's face as the man tries to process the scene taking place in front of him.  Enjolras only looks more confused when Courf pulls his friends off of the floor, picks Jehan up, sits him in a chair, and turns to Grantaire.  The man lifts an eyebrow and the artist nods, biting his lip to keep himself from grinning like an idiot.  He fails spectacularly.

“Nice,” Courf nods his approval and pats Grantaire on the back. “You were head over heels for the guy, it's about time.”

For some reason, there's an ugly twist in the pit of Enjolras' stomach as he figures out the implication behind these words.  An accompanying anger follows close behind, and the man needs to do something, say something.

“What exactly is happening here that is more important than providing warm clothing for homeless youth in our city?” he asks, raising his voice over the commotion that is building in the room.  Everyone abruptly falls silent.

Enjolras honestly expects Grantaire to roll his eyes at this and move to take his normal seat near the back so the meeting could continue.  What he doesn’t expect, however, is for the the man’s cheeks to colour as he nervously looks at the floor.

“He asked me out,” he mumbles, “André asked me out on a date.”

A gleeful smile begins to work its way across Grantaire's face again as words of congratulations echo throughout the Musain from his friends.  Enjolras should feel happy for his friend, but his frustration and anger only builds.

“And you thought that was a good enough reason to interrupt me?” Enjolras scoffs, “please keep your ridiculous personal life for less serious times, this is a meeting.”

The words register in Enjolras' brain a few moments after he says them and he is appalled.  Why am I being so cruel?  Why do I care so much about this?

Enjolras catches the hurt that flickers across Grantaire's face before his expression becomes neutral, blank.  It only lasts a few seconds before his features are carefully moulded into a smirk.  Enjolras hates when this happens.  He knows that Grantaire has specific defense mechanisms for certain situations, and that smirk is the one that appears whenever somebody says something that bites deep.  It seems to make the most appearances around Enjolras.

“I'm sorry,” Grantaire's voice wobbles and he swallows before continuing, “I'm sorry that my happiness means so little to you, I won't bother you with such trivial nuisances anymore.”

Before Enjolras can stop him to explain, Grantaire has already turned and walked out of the cafe.  Even as he realizes that there isn’t a reasonable excuse for his behaviour, he runs to follow the man.  Before he is able to so much as reach the door, he  is stopped short by Éponine.  To be specific, he's halted by Éponine's fist which hits his cheekbone rather solidly.  

Enjolras stumbles backward, neck already aching from the way it was thrown back at impact.  Lifting a tentative hand to touch his throbbing face, he winces.  That is certainly going to bruise.

“No, fuck you.” Éponine snarls. “You do not get to go after him you horrible bag of dicks.  You've used up your word quota for today.  How could you do that to him after he’s finally found something to be happy about?”

“But-”

“Do you even care?  What you think means so much to him and you just go and walk all over him like that.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“I don’t care what you meant, if you say another word, I’m going to find Musichetta’s rustiest spoon, and castrate you with it.”

Enjolras' mouth snaps shut almost comically quickly and from the corner of his eye, he can see the woman in question shift behind the bar.

He goes completely pales as Éponine steps an inch closer to him, tilting her head. “Better.”

“Now you're going to listen to me you hideously over-privileged prick.  You will not go near Grantaire until he sees fit to approach you.  You do not get to make whatever pathetic attempt at an apology you think will fix this situation, because you know what?   He'll forgive you.  You're fucking Apollo and he's an idiot who can't say no to a pretty bourgeois thing like you.”

“I am not-”

"Rusty spoon," Jehan sings from somewhere to Enjolras' left.  Even with the light tone in his voice, Enjolras knows that he is just as angry as Éponine, the man  just expresses it differently.  

Enjolras closes his mouth again, but an indignant look remains on his face.

"Thank you, love." Éponine turns back to Enjolras. "Now you are going to let Grantaire be happy and forget about you for a while because god knows he deserves it. He's finally found someone who doesn't treat him like a pile of shit they accidentally stepped in."

Enjolras nods slowly before opening his mouth and quickly closing it with a sheepish look on his face.

“Go on,” Éponine gestures for him to speak.

“What do I do then? I can't just leave him.”

“Like fuck you can't, he has friends to take care of him.  On the other hand, you are going to continue doing whatever pathetic excuses for human beings do with their lives, and you're going to leave my best friend the fuck alone.  Understand?”

“Yes...” Enjolras looks like he's about to say something else, but thinks better of it.  “I'm going to... errr... go.”  He finishes lamely and trudges out of the Musain.

“If I hear that you went within a kilometre radius of his apartment, you may find that your life will suddenly become incredibly difficult,” she calls after him before turning back towards her friends.

Combeferre whistles.  "You really cut him a new one, I have never seen anyone successfully shut him down like that."

“He may be trying to help the world, but he's still a privileged douche.  He needed to be taken down a notch.”  A few heads bob in agreement as Éponine takes a seat.  “Besides, he’s done this before and knows it’s wrong, but continues taking out his frustration on Grantaire anyway.  I can’t let Enjolras keep using him as a verbal punching bag whenever he gets upset.”

Nodding, Combeferre regards her with something akin to respect, "I'm not arguing with you there, just... wow."

“What an ass though, I can’t believe he just said that to ‘Taire,” Jehan pulls his lower lip forward into a pout.  He’s stabbing the pen in his hand into a piece of paper that he was doodling on.

“I’m not surprised, Grantaire never says anything so Enjolras keeps doing it.  I don’t think that R knows that he’s entitled to anything else,” Courf responds.

“That’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him and Enjolras just had to rip him apart.”

“They just need to fuck and make up, I’ve never seen two people so desperately in need of a good lay.”  Courfeyrac tries to do what he does best: lighten the mood.  The falseness of his humour is evident in his voice, however, and the situation only gets more uncomfortable.

“Courf...” Jehan begins.

“Not that Enjolras couldn’t get some if he wanted to, but Grantaire... Well, he’s Grantaire.”

“That’s enough, I don’t need to hear that shit from you too,” Éponine glares at Courf and the man immediately looks away, shame written all over his face.

There are a few seconds of tense silence before Combeferre declares the meeting adjourned and Les Amis slowly begin to file out of the little café.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras heads directly to Grantaire’s flat after he leaves the Musain, Éponine’s earlier warnings all but forgotten in the face of his mistake.  He strides up to the man's front door and punches the silver button attached to a small speaker.  

When the system crackles to life and a lady asks who he has arrived to see, he simply says, “please tell Grantaire that Enjolras is here to see him… and that he’s sorry.”  

The answer takes a long time to come, and when it does, the receptionist denies entry, saying that “Monsieur Grantaire is not home right now.”

Enjolras thanks the woman for her time and walks away, defeated.  His gait is less purposeful now and he cannot deny that he dawdles on the way back through the parking lot.  Perhaps there is a part of him that hopes to hear the receptionist’s voice again, saying that she made a mistake, that Grantaire is home and would like to talk to him.  The only sound he can hear is the wind softly blowing past his ears, and a car alarm blaring a few buildings over.

He looks back just before he reaches his car and Enjolras swears that he sees the curtains in Grantaire’s flat shift before falling still.  Guilt rips through his chest and he closes his eyes, biting his lips to stop them from quivering.  God, he’s such an idiot.

Enjolras hesitates, wondering whether he should go back and try again, before Éponine’s threats echo across his mind.  Shit.  

Hopefully Grantaire isn’t home after all and she never finds out.  Enjolras knows that Éponine always holds true to her word, and there is no doubt in his mind that she is going to be angry at him.  She is very protective of her best friend and God knows that Grantaire deserves it.

Come to think of it, Enjolras can’t remember a time when the man has called him out for being unreasonably cruel or rude.  It’s always Éponine or Jehan shooting angry looks toward the front of the room, or Combeferre berating him quietly when the meeting finishes.  

Enjolras slides into his car and slams the door, wincing at the loud sound.  As he starts the car, he racks his brain, trying to find plausible reasons for Grantaire’s silence.  During the thirty minutes that it takes him to arrive home, he comes up empty handed.  Enjolras cannot fathom why the man would not stand up for himself.  

Self-hatred blooms in his chest as he realizes that this is the first time he’s put any thought into the matter.  Shoving those feelings aside, he steps out of his car and fumbles for his keys.  This is definitely not an appropriate time for self-pity.  

Instead, he focuses on how he will explain his presence at Grantaire’s apartment complex to Éponine.  He hates to think about what would happen if she finds out where he went after the meeting.

He finally works the stiff lock on the door to his small student town-house open, and stumbles inside.  Running his hand along the wall, searching for the lightswitch, he flicks it on and toes off his shoes.  As he walks through the narrow hallway to the kitchen, Enjolras’ thoughts slide back to his relationship with Grantaire.

They fight constantly, all of their conversations consist more of arguments and shouting than anything else.  The problem is, Enjolras usually walks away either unaffected or armed with an arsenal of new arguments that he can use to convert any doubtful listeners during his speeches.

Grantaire, however, always seems to retreat for a few days after particularly bad fights.  When he does return to meetings, it’s with quick, unusually harsh sarcasm and a mask of indifference.  By the time things are back to normal, another bout of bickering occurs and Grantaire’s back to square one.

Enjolras knows that Éponine fervently and quite vocally disapproves of what these arguments do to Grantaire.  A part of Enjolras has always suspected that she hates him for the way that he affects her friend.  Despite what his friends think, he does know that Grantaire has a small crush on him, but he’s only beginning to understand the implications of this fact.  Maybe Enjolras has more power over the man than he originally thought.  

He’s not in the mood to examine what this might mean for him, however; Enjolras has been ignoring the strange feelings that spring up every time he captures Grantaire’s undivided attention too successfully to allow that to happen.  Any more-than-platonic relationship that might be possible between the two of them would only suffice to distract Enjolras’ efforts in school and for the cause.  

Regardless, that isn’t of any concern to him right now.  Whatever might have been possible between them is gone with the news that was brought to Les Amis’ attention today.  Enjolras just wishes he could be happier.

Grantaire’s mental health has never been the most stable of things and Enjolras hasn’t seen the other man smile as much in his life as he did while speaking about his newfound boyfriend.  

He desperately tries to push away the spike of jealousy that comes with the realization that he has never elicited a pleasant reaction like that from Grantaire.  The unwanted emotion just makes Enjolras feel worse; he has no right to feel that way after he treated the other man today.

He thinks instead about the fact that he doesn’t blame Éponine for despising him.  Grantaire finally found something good for himself and Enjolras had to insult it, throw it into the dirt and call it silly, unimportant.  His chest pangs as he opens the refrigerator and takes a drink straight from the carton of orange juice.  

How must that have sounded to Grantaire?  He has shitty self esteem on good days and in that light, the meaning of Enjolras’ words quickly warp and twist into something much uglier than they appear on the surface.  Grantaire must truly think that Enjolras believes his happiness to be of little consequence, that Enjolras doesn’t care about him at all..

Éponine was right to warn him away for a while;  Enjolras is beginning to see that all he ever does is make things worse.  He’ll just have to lay low and let Grantaire figure things out with his boyfriend.  Maybe he’ll figure out how to build a better life, be happier with this new man who gives him the love he deserves.

Bile rises up to Enjolras’ mouth again.  This time it’s unclear whether this is a reaction to the fact that he won’t be the one to help Grantaire, or that he is the person who dragged the artist so low.  Enjolras has slowly been bringing the man to a point where a few words from him make Grantaire retreat even further into himself, away from any comfort his friends may bring.

Enjolras places his empty glass in the sink and sighs, he’ll wash it later.  Right now he needs to stop his mind from wandering and that won’t happen if he stays inside his house all evening.  

He traces his steps back to his car and spends the next few hours running errands.  

That night, he gets home late and is ready for a hot shower and a good night’s rest.  As soon as these thoughts enter his head, he remembers that his politics professor assigned a three thousand word essay.  It’s due in a few days and he really needs to start writing.  With his course-load this week, Enjolras won’t have any time to finish it unless he begins working soon.  How could he have forgotten?  

He exhales loudly, shoulders slumping as he makes his way to the couch where he left the assignment.  It’s piled over with textbooks, research papers, and  rough copies of essays marked over in red pen.  He goes to perch on an empty space near the corner of the left cushion and his heart stops.

There, where his beloved laptop is always placed, is a towering stack of papers that weren’t there this morning.  Adorning the mountain of sheets is sticky note that reads:

“Good luck with your essay now, bitch"

Enjolras recognizes the handwriting immediately and regrets his decision to drive to Grantaire’s place.  Éponine has connections with people who aren’t exactly known for honest work and he honestly isn’t surprised that she was able to break into his apartment without difficulty.  There are no signs of her presence other than the ones she deliberately left.  If Enjolras weren’t so frustrated, he would appreciate the beauty of her execution.

He just scowls, there is no way he’ll be able to write the essay by hand.  He will have to go to the library and use one of their computers to finish his work early tomorrow morning.  

In the meantime, he might as well he some rest.  Abandoning the couch, he shrugs one shoulder and trudges off to bed, not bothering to take his clothes off before he flops onto the mattress.  It seems safe enough, the sheets are cool and soft, as inviting as ever.  He mentally thanks Éponine for leaving his bedroom alone before he sinks into a deep sleep, exhausted.

 

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

 

As soon as his alarm goes off the next morning, Enjolras rolls out of bed and heads directly into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee.  A glint of light coming from the couch gives him pause, and he shuffles over to investigate.  His laptop, pristine and safe, is sitting beneath a pile of clothes that has been building up on the cushions for a few weeks.  So that's where Éponine put it.  

Enjolras shakes his head and continues on his original path, he should have known that the woman would hide it somewhere reasonably close-by.  That's the only rule she, and whoever else deems to join her, seems to have when playing pranks.  Taking a moment to be thankful for the pattern to her madness, Enjolras shivers as his feet hit the cold kitchen tile.

Caffeine is definitely going to  be necessary to survive whatever this day is going to throw at him.  He groans when he opens the overhanging cupboards and sees that his selection has been replaced with decaffeinated herbal tea.  That is one drink that he would never buy, but he knows exactly where it came from.  Enjolras pushes himself away from the counter and glances down..

Another sticky note is affixed to the coffeemaker:

"You need to chill the fuck out, no more coffee for you pretty boy"

Enjolras is about ready to rip his hair out.  Why him?  

 _Because you’re an asshole_ , his brain supplies.  

 _Yes, but I’m an accidental asshole_ , he shoots back, and reminisces about how true this thought is.  Most of the time he speaks without thinking, frustration boiling over before he knows what he’s saying.   

“Accidental asshole,” Grantaire would laugh at that, joke about how accurate a description it is.  He would probably throw in a quip about the fact that the almighty Apollo does have flaws after all.

Enjolras grimaces at this thought, he hates the nickname.  He is uneasy being compared to a god, an obvious hint toward the fact that he is perfect in Grantaire’s eyes, raised above everyone else in his presence.  Fighting for equality becomes much more difficult when people are convinced that he is better than them, superior in some sense.

“I’m going crazy,” Enjolras mumbles to his distorted reflection in the kitchen window, “I’m talking to myself, and I’m going absolutely mental.”

He needs to pull himself together, his psychology lecture is in about three hours and he can’t afford a wandering mind.  Enjolras still has to shower and put the finishing touches on a note for this class.  Absentmindedly, he reaches down and picks up his textbook from where he left it on the kitchen table, throwing it in his bookbag.  It is hanging over a chair, right where he left it before the meeting yesterday.  Grabbing a few pencils as well, he tosses those in along after the book and swings the bag over his shoulder.

After he dumps it by the door next to his scuffed, red converse, Enjolras heads toward his bathroom.  As he peels his shirt off and drops it in the hamper, he makes a mental note to buy new shoes, his old ones are in a sorry state.  Of course, he knows that he probably won’t get around to doing this until Courfeyrac physically drags him out to go shopping, but at least he can say he made an effort to remind himself that he needs to replace them.

Enjolras unbuttons his pants with one hand and turns the shower on with the other, a content sigh escaping from his mouth as warm steam begins to fill the room.  At least Éponine didn’t tamper with the water so he has a nice, warm shower to look forward to.  It is just what he needs to relax his sore muscles and melt away some of the stress that had been plaguing him for the past few hours.  

The last thing Enjolras thinks before he steps into the hot stream is that Éponine hadn’t done anything too horrible.  He will probably get his laptop back from her within a few days if he can get Combeferre to use his powers of persuasion, and decaffeinated tea isn’t the worse thing she could have left him with.  Anyway, he can still drop by a coffee shop on the way to school; it’s less convenient but won’t make that much of a difference in his routine.  All in all, his morning hasn’t been as bad as he thought it would be, maybe Éponine let him off lightly this time. 

_Besides, what’s the worst she can do?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this update. As always, feel free to leave comments and criticism below, if you have any headcanons for this verse, please send me those as well. If they fit into place within the story I'm planning, I may use them, and will always credit in the notes using whatever name you send them under.  
> The next chapter should be up shortly as I already have a rough copy written that encompasses most of the fic.


	3. Chapter 3

Eggs.

Putting raw eggs in his shampoo bottle is the worst she can do.

Since Enjolras has no way to wash his hair now, he decides to use regular soap to get the sticky yellow substance out.  It takes a few tries to rid himself of the awful feeling that the eggs left and by this time, he is having difficulty running his fingers through his hair.  Conditioner can only do so much to help and when it dries, it vaguely resembles straw, sticking up at odd angles.

His heart rate picks up pace as he turns away from his faint reflection in the glass of his shower, and toward the mirror to better assess the situation.  There is an angry message written on it in- Enjolras swipes his fingers along the red substance- lipstick.  

He takes a second to read it over before reaching underneath the sink to retrieve a bottle of Windex.  As he cleans the mirror, profanity smears and fades from the surface, leaving slight pink smudges behind.

So much for “streak free”, Enjolras thinks.

When it is as clean as it’s going to get, he regards his reflection and takes a deep breath.  He’s faced with a head of frizzy, untamable hair.   The area by his left ear is pressed flat and the rest of it splays out like a peacock’s tail on the other side of his face.  However unbelievable it may seem, this isn't the worst hair day Enjolras has had to deal with.  There was that one time he spent the summer swimming at his parent's cottage.  True to form, they built a pool in their backyard, regardless of the lake that was easily accessible to them.  After a few weeks of exposure to chlorine, his hair was impossible; conditioner could only do so much.  Enjolras returns to his present situation with a rue smile on his face.  He's master of his own hair, he can do this.  Besides, that's what he has products for. 

After the sixth time that his brush gets stuck in the tangled mass, he is forced to give up and wrestle it into a bun.  The lumpy shape  flops around on the top of his head while he bends down and opens the drawer next to the sink.

He closes his eyes as he squeezes toothpaste out of the tube, sighing in relief when he peeks at his toothbrush and the substance emerges in a translucent green line.  It seems as though he’ll be left to brush his teeth in peace.  When Enjolras is sure that his awful morning breath is gone, he wanders back into his bedroom to get dressed.  

This is going to be a difficult morning, he thinks to himself as his wardrobe doors swing forward and dread sits itself low and content in his chest.

 

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

 

When Enjolras gets to school, he's late and barely trips through the door before his lecture begins, earning a glare from the professor.  Not bothering to apologize and interrupt further, he just lets the embarrassment burn in his cheeks and rushes across the room.  It’s fortunate that the professor likes him, if any other student were to arrive in such a fashion, they would surely be locked out.  

Enjolras takes regular his seat at the front, ignoring the snickers that come from the rest of the class when he turns around.  Thankfully, he isn’t very close with anyone in the room, so he doesn’t have to worry about what impression his attire might leave.  He realizes this sounds bad, but it’s an art history course and the student populace consists mainly of lazy stoners who sleep through the lectures.  

To be fair, a large portion of his friends also smoke weed, supplied steadily by Jehan, but they are dedicated students.  He respects the fact that the don’t allow their recreational habits to negatively affect their lives.  Although he doesn’t partake in such activities himself, he couldn’t care less about the drugs these people are putting into their systems, it’s the apathy that gets to Enjolras; and it irks him to his core.

He opens his notebook and starts chewing on a pencil while his professor prattles on about the history of chiaroscuro.  It’s a habit he picked up from his sister, Cosette.  She used to gnaw the ends of all of her writing utensil whenever he helped her with homework, which was quite often.  After a few years, Enjolras found himself doing the same and doesn’t see any reason to stop.  If anything, it helps dispel nervous energy that usually builds up during classes, especially before exam season.  

Turning his thoughts back to the class, Enjolras thinks that if he is completely honest with himself, he would admit that he didn’t take the elective because of a burning interest in the history of visual art.  He tells anyone who asks that he needed an art credit and can’t draw worth anything, so this was really his only option.  It’s a lie, but an easy one that no one has paused to question.  

The choice might also have something to do with the 50% chance that Grantaire would have been in his class.  Despite the odds, the artist ended up in the first semester courses that had conflicted with Enjolras’ political science lecture.  Not that Enjolras cares, of course; or so he tells himself.

He moves from mouthing at the pencil to doodling in the margins of the page he flipped to.  Enjolras’ notes are sparse at best and filled with pages that are covered in squiggles and shapes.  

He thinks about the subject material his professor should be discussing in psychology today, not feeling any real need to pay attention to what he read about in his textbook a few days ago.  The lecture is dry, and his mind soon travels to ponder the state in which  he found his wardrobe earlier this morning.

When he went back his room and opened up the closet, everything was normal, save for the drawer where he keeps his trousers. All of his bottoms had been taken and replaced with hideous yoga pants.  He pulled the first pair out and a note fluttered to the ground.  

It read:

“Courtesy of Cosette’s new job at PINK, the evils of capitalism have never looked so good”

After he tried a few pairs on, Enjolras realized that they extremely form-fitting, hugging his slender hips.  He would never deem to wear anything that tight,  leaving the stylish, sexy clothing to Coufeyrac.  Enjolras feels more comfortable in soft jeans and graphic t-shirts.  

This wasn’t the worst part though; he quickly noticed that the pants also had the names of large cities scrawled across the ass in large, colourful script.  

Time passes quickly and, when the lecture ends,  Enjolras scrambles out of his seat and through the door.  He hears the fading laughter of his classmates as he stalks to the social sciences building.  Other than the strange looks he receives during his walk across campus, everything is pretty normal.

Then Courfeyrac shows up.

"Hey there, Paris," he croons as Enjolras walks into the classroom and turns to shut the door behind him.  Courf jogs over to his friend and eyes the bright red pants stretched taut over his thighs.  “Interesting clothing choice, but Feuilly was right-”

“Fuck off.”

“-You do have the legs for pole dancing.”

“Feuilly said…?  Whatever, just sit down and shut up,” Enjolras growls as he shuffles toward his desk and flops down.

Courf laughs in response and shrugs, taking his place next to the other man.

“What’s with the hair?” Enjolras looks up to see Combeferre approaching slowly, eyeing him.  “Are you planning on auditioning for the role of Fiyero, post-prince era?”

           He takes his place on Enjolras’ unoccupied side and fixes his glasses, trying to hide the way the corners of his mouth twitch upward.  Courfeyrac has no such restraint and loud giggles burst out of him.  Enjolras reaches to his sides and smacks the backs of their heads.

“He has a point, you know,” Courfeyrac ruffles Enjolras’ hair and ducks out of the way of the hand that swings over again, less gentle than the first reprimanding tap.

The professor enters the room with a brief apology for being late and starts the lesson.  Enjolras ignores the looks that Combeferre and Courfeyrac share over him and slouches in his chair moodily.

“Stop pouting,” Combeferre leans over and whispers in his ear.  “It’s not a becoming look on you.”

Enjolras pretends not to hear him while he reaches down to his bag, pulling out his cell phone.  He gives Combeferre a pointed look, silently telling him that he’d rather not talk about it.  Fiddling with the device, he tries to ignore the way his friend is still staring at him.

Combeferre obviously doesn’t get the message from Enjolras' initial frown because he continues, unfazed, “So what happened to you?”

Enjolras sighs.  “Éponine happened.”

“I’m not surprised, Grantaire didn’t-”

His sentence is cut off as a shadow passes over the students and their professor softly clears his throat.

“What is this?”  He plucks Enjolras’ cell phone out of his hands.

Combeferre makes a choked sound and avoids his blonde friend’s eyes, posture screaming guilty.  

“It’s a phone, professor,” Enjolras says.

“Is it?  That's interesting, because I'm fairly certain that you know my rules." The professor points to a sign proclaiming cellular devices as prohibited items.  It's been hanging at the front of the classroom since the beginning of the semester and the man is right, Enjolras should know better. "I would ask you to leave your personal devices at home in the future.  Please collect your phone from me at the end of the lecture."

Enjolras goes red, and then white, and nods, a wistful expression on his face as he watches the professor leave with his phone.  Courfeyrac executes a fairly accurate impersonation of Enjolras' "I'm disappointed in you" face.  To his right, Combeferre is making little whimpering sounds.  Either the effort not to chuckle is taking it’s toll, or he knows that his friend will have an earfull for him later.  

The professor raises an eyebrow but says nothing more as he returns to the front of the class to finish his lecture.  

Trying to fight the blush that is probably bright on his cheeks, Enjolras turns to Combeferre and whispers, “Why didn’t you say anything?  Warn me he was coming?”

The man shrugs and quietly parrots, "You know the rules, Enjolras.”

Enjolras doesn’t bother responding to that, knowing that Combeferre is, as usual, correct.  He's said as much to both of his friends on multiple different occassions.  Staying silent for the rest of the lecture, he listens carefully and takes notes, planning a trip to Éponine’s place in the back of his mind.  He needs his pants and coffee; a discussion about recent events would be wonderful as well.

After the professor dismisses his students, Enjolras grabs his phone off of the front desk and leaves quickly.  He walks quickly to Éponine's dorm room, making the trip in less time than it usually takes him.    Enjolras knows that Éponine will shut him down as soon as he arrives to complain, and thinks that might be just what he needs.

Cosette answers the door when he bangs on it, laughter bubbling out of her mouth as she sees the state that he is in.

"Éponine is in her room," she gestures down the hallway and closes the door behind him, collapsing against it with the force of her laughter when she sees the back of his pants.  

Enjolras doesn’t say anything to her, worried that he might upset his sister.  He may be angry, but he loves Cosette and it wouldn’t do to yell at her.  Éponine, however, can take what he gives and throw it right back in his face.

As Enjolras enters the girl's bedroom, the lights flicker on and she turns around slowly in a chair.  Shadows dance on her face and she is stroking what appears to be an extraordinarily fluffy sweater.  Of course, this is all a joke to her beneath the heavier duty of protecting Grantaire.

"I was expecting you."  

"Yeah, I bet you were," Enjolras seethes, crossing the room with determined strides that might look intimidating on any other day.  "Fucking eggs in my shampoo, my coffee, not to mention the fact that you replaced all of the contents of my fridge with plastic play-food."

“I can assure you that the eggs were not fucking.  It isn’t really anatomically possible, actually-”

“Fuck you.”

"Swearing, Enjolras? Why aren't we feeling feisty this morning," Éponine smirks at his frazzled state.

"When did you have time to ruin my life today?"

She shrugs in response, "My midnight shift got cancelled and some sources confirmed that you're an extraordinarily heavy sleeper."

"Who... Wait, you had to come into my bedroom to get to the bathroom, how-"

"Did you know that you grind your teeth? You may want to speak with your dentist about that."

"I'm serious Éponine, what the heck? How could you think-"

"No, see, I thought about what I was doing, planned it all out before executing it and knew that you deserve every single thing I did to you. On the other hand, the fucking problem here, Apollo," she spits the nickname out, knowing how much it bothers him, "is that you don't give a shit what comes out of your mouth. You don't fucking think before you decide to grace us all with your bullshit. So stop bitching to me about eggshells in your hair, and figure out how you're going to change.  If you aren’t, well, then Grantaire doesn’t need you in his life, and neither do I.”

He opens his mouth to respond and she holds up a finger to cut him off.

“And I would recommend that you decide how you are going to make yourself a better person before I lovingly use every book in your house as kindling for my bonfire pit.."

Enjolras is speechless for one of the first times in his life, and silently follows Éponine out of her room when she leaves.  She opens the front door without a word and motions for him to go.

Before she closes the door, he stop it with his foot.  “Thanks, Ép.  I really… I think I needed to hear that.”

“No problem, Enj.  I was just kidding about the book thing, too.  I love my pranks, but  I would never do that; Combeferre might murder me.”  She shakes her head and laughs at the thought.  The sudden ease of conversation is strange in contrast with the shouting match they had had just moments earlier; but there’s understanding between them.   

Enjolras allows himself a small smile and says, “Yes, well, thank you.”

“Just remember, I didn’t do this for you.  This all happened for three reasons:  for Grantaire, to try to save whatever relationship the two of you might have at this point, and for that priceless look on your face.”

Nodding his understanding, Enjolras takes the unspoken hint and leaves, hearing the soft click of the door behind him.

As soon as he is gone, Cosette wanders into the living room with two mugs of coffee.  She hands the lighter brew to Éponine and the two girls take a seat on the couch.

“Despite what you claim, you’re a good person, ‘Ponine,” Cosette eyes her friend over the rim of her cup as she takes a sip.

Éponine sighs, “I had to do something, you should have seen Grantaire’s face.  He was just so happy and then that asshole just shat all over his one good moment.”

“Mhmm, that’s what I’m saying.  You did what needed to be done and Enjolras got the message loud and clear.  It will give Grantaire some reprieve from my brother’s constant presence as well, that should be good for him”

Éponine shifts to face Cosette in a more comfortable position.  “’Taire is my best friend, I can’t just let Enjolras walk all over him, you know as well as I do that he isn’t going to say anything.  I did what had to be done.”

Cosette nods and takes another drink.  “And you’re skirting around my point: you are an amazing friend to Grantaire, he’s lucky to have you.  So what did he say when you talked to him?”

“He thanked me afterward and seemed relieved to not have to worry about Enjolras.  Hopefully he’ll be able to focus on what he has with André, have some fun.”

“Hopefully,” Cosette agrees. “You really care about him.”  It’s a statement because the answer is plain in all of Éponine’s actions.

“I always have.” She smiles, and laughs a little.  “Anyway, you can't deny that your brother is sure as fuck going to think twice next time he decides to tell Grantaire just how worthless Enjolras thinks he  is."

“That’s very true.”  The girls grin at each other and the conversation shifts to the essay that Cosette needs edited for the next day.

 

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

 

On his way home, Enjolras picks up a bottle of shampoo at the grocery store and stops by Jehan’s house.  The poet wears the same size pants and him and, although he had to endure teasing from the moment he walked into the man’s apartment, he hoped to borrow something suitable from the man.  Éponine, the mastermind that she is, predicted this action.  It turns out that she gave Enjolras’ stolen clothes to Jehan for safe-keeping.  

He leaves his friend’s house with a stack of neatly folded trousers and a styrofoam cup, filled to the brim with delicious coffee.  

When Enjolras gets back to his building, he gives the stack of papers still sitting on his couch a distasteful glance as he walks toward his room.  He flops into bed, thinking that he’ll have a shower the next morning, and falls asleep right away, his nightmarish day fading away into a dreamless slumber.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed the latest update to this fic, I did promise that Enjolras was in for a difficult day. As usual, please feel free to leave comments and suggestions down below, they're always appreciated.  
> Special thanks for enjolgay for editing this chapter for me, she always does an amazing job. Another one should be posted in the next few weeks, I have the plot line figured out and just need to refine my ideas. Thanks for reading. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter, filler chapter that I need to introduce a new character and solidify characterizations. I'll have something more progressive and substantial up in a few weeks. Enjoy. :)

About a week passes  and Enjolras hasn’t seen Grantaire at all.  He’s somewhat anxious about being in the same room as the man when it's time for another meeting at the Musain.

Grantaire is uncharacteristically quiet while Enjolras speaks; the only time he says anything is when he leans over to Joly and whispers something in the man’s ear.  The med student laughs in response, nudging Bossuet to pass the message on, a friendly game of telephone that is normal between the three friends.  

It is apparent that everyone in the room notices that there is tension between the two men, but nobody comments.  

It isn’t until the end of the meeting, when Enjolras is clearing up a few typos in his latest pamphlet with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, that Grantaire approaches him.  The man is tentative, but when he speaks, his voice is as steady as ever.

“Is it alright if I bring someone new to the meeting?”

Courfeyrac glances upward and smiles warmly.  “You don’t have to ask us, Grantaire.  You’re as much a member as anyone else and you know how much we love new recruits.”

“I just thought I should make sure it’s alright.” Grantaire takes a deep breath and fixes his gaze on Enjolras. “I want to invite André.”

Enjolras’ stomach clenches uncomfortably, and his face feels feverish.  His best friends aren’t saying anything to Grantaire and it’s very clear that all of them are expecting spoken permission from Enjolras himself.  He wants to say no, wants to forbid the man from coming to the café.  But that would be childish, and without reason; Enjolras knows that he wouldn’t be able to explain and besides, he'd rather not think about this reaction.

Instead, he simply jerks his head up and down a few times, mumbling, “Yes, of course you can bring him.  Like Courf said, any new members are welcome.”

Grantaire’s lips form a tight line and he curtly thanks them before walking back to his table.  Combeferre makes a noise of disapproval at Enjolras’ side which the blonde man elects to ignore.  He knows that how he treated Grantaire was inappropriate and cold, and he doesn't need Combeferre’s lecture.

 

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

 

Another week passes quickly enough, and Enjolras is too buried in his studies to be nervous about meeting Grantaire’s boyfriend.  He had received his laptop back from Éponine a while ago and had spent the time since then frantically working on term papers.  It isn’t until Enjolras arrives at the Musain that his heart leaps into his chest, and he has to remind himself to breath properly.

For the first time since he’s joined Les Amis, Grantaire is early.  Not by his standard, either; he’s punctual in every sense of the word, arriving just after Enjolras.   He is towing another man behind him, their fingers loosely intertwined.

When the buzz of chatter in the room ceases, and people swivel in their chairs to face the new arrivals, Grantaire clears his throat.  “Everyone, this is André.  André, this is… erm… well, everyone.”

Smiles and greetings come from all corners of the room and André grins from his position behind Grantaire.

“I was not expecting such an eclectic group, it is wonderful to meet all of you.”  His voice is slightly accented, a Spanish lilt present in his vowels and the graceful way he trips between words.

There is an answering chorus from the inhabitants of the room and, altogether, everyone sounds excited.

Grantaire sits down with his boyfriend at his usual table where Joly and Bossuet immediately strike up conversation with the man.  From a few tables over, Jehan is cooing over how cute the couple is, just within earshot.

Curling into André, Grantaire rests his head back against the taller man’s chest.  The man smiles downward fondly and plays with his boyfriend’s inky curls, winding them around long, graceful fingers.

Back at the front of the room, Enjolras calls the meeting to order and begins delivering his speech.  Although it’s as flawless as ever, both his eyes and his mind wander to the table where Grantaire and André are cuddling.

As he speaks about a new initiative that he wants to bring to high schools in the area, his thoughts linger on the happy couple.  Enjolras is not used to feeling so envious of the people close to Grantaire, but that may be because he’s never seen the man so at ease with anyone before.  Switching topics somewhat to discuss the logistics of implementing his plans, Enjolras narrow his eyes at the way Grantaire buries himself in the other man’s chest and looks up at him, love clear on his face for everyone to see.

The meeting soon draws to a close.  There won’t be much as far as debate topics go until Enjolras gets permission from the local school board to start organizing within the schools.  Leaving Combeferre and Enjolras to sort out the paperwork they need to get through today, Courfeyrac drifts over to Grantaire’s table.

He winks at André and asks, “So, how did you guys meet?”

“It was as close to love at first sight as I have ever experienced,” André muses, softly kissing the top of Grantaire’s head before sitting up straight.  “I am a music major and was playing piano in the practice room.  Grantaire passed by after he finished his class down the hall and began singing along.  He has a beautiful voice, and I managed to rope him into promising to help me with my audition for master classes.  I need an accompanying vocalist, you see, and he is the best I’ve heard.”

Jehan joins the table and strokes a gentle finger up Grantaire’s arm, not noticing the possessive look that André gives him.  “He really is a lovely singer, it’s a shame he’s too shy to perform for us.”

Grantaire laughs at this, saying, “Nah, I don’t sing for you guys because you wouldn’t know a good tune if it slapped you in the face.”

Jehan and Courfeyrac glance at each other, both carrying matching, offended expressions and clutching their chests.  It doesn’t take long for them to burst into laughter, leaning against each other as they giggle.

Regarding his friends’ reactions, Grantaire grins and continues, “Besides, André knows the advanced arts teacher and is going to write a reference letter for me.  There’s no way I’ll be able to get into the program without him, it’s so selective.”

André nods and pokes his boyfriend’s shoulder in warning before he stands up.  Stretching his stiff limbs, he adds, “Don’t let Grantaire play himself short, I need him just as much as he does me.  Possibly more.”

The man leans down and places a gentle peck on Grantaire’s lips, pulling away as the artist’s hands begin to wind into his hair.  

“Anyway,” André ruffles the shorter man’s hair, “I better get going, I have a lesson to attend in fifteen minutes and need to get across campus.  You’re alright to get home, R?”

Grantaire nods in affirmative, humming contently as he watches his boyfriend leave the small café.  

Packing up his things, Enjolras is unashamedly staring as the men say goodbye to each other.  However, when André kisses Grantaire and leaves, he doesn’t feel the expected bolt of jealousy.  The gestures makes Enjolras uneasy for some reason.  In conjunction with the intimate cuddling that was occurring throughout the meeting, a short kiss, merely a brush of lips, seems out of place, impersonal.  

Enjolras shakes his head, he’s overthinking things.  Maybe the men aren’t comfortable with that kind of PDA, who knows?  It’s none of Enjolras’ business and Grantaire can take care of himself. If something is amiss, the artist will surely notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a long time to get this up because I re-wrote a large portion of the fic. What I had didn't allow for the best ending so I changed quite a few things around.
> 
> I owe queerpercy chocolate and wonderful things for reading through what I've written so far. They've done a lot to encourage the continuation of this fic and they caught a lot of mistakes. Thank you so much.
> 
> As always, criticism and suggestions are always welcome in the comments.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the lovely Frannie for indulging the random fics that I end up typing at her every so often. As always, thoughts and criticism are always welcome, please feel free to leave them in the comments section. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, another should be posted again soon, possibly in the next few days.


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